


The Father Complex

by psychosomatic86



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Boy howdy that sure is some stuff I just tagged there huh, Child Abuse, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff, Gaslighting, Grooming, Implied Child Abuse, Isolation, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Disintegration, Protective Siblings, Sensory Deprivation, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, this fic will follow John from beginning to end, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-15 05:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11799372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosomatic86/pseuds/psychosomatic86
Summary: He hopes beyond the beyond for the day when they will fly together over the dunes and plateaus and scorched gorges of this arid wasteland, soar above everything that has masqueraded as their home so they can look down andlaughat how pathetic it was all along, a mere speck in the spyglass of their searching eyes that will just…blinkand then look no more upon this planet.I’ll get us out, he promises.I’m going to get us out.





	1. Lights Above the Bristlecone

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Love John Hunger A Whole Fuck Of A Lot, so chaboy's getting his very own tragic backstory! This is in no way a means to make you sympathize with this bastard, I just wanted to see what I could come up with for why he is the way he is. Also, his name isn't John. Not yet.

“Do you know what’s gonna happen,” Corelli says, hand spanning the horizon in grand gesticulation, “when Sorscha and Arkemi collide?”

 

Marcol looks up at the sky and the two galaxies suspended there in apparent stasis - a spectacular view from their vantage point perched in the giant, petrified bristlecone in the backyard. After a moment, he turns back to his younger sister, her eyes wide with anticipation and the reflected stars overhead.

 

He smiles and shakes his head. “No, can’t say I do.”

 

Corelli’s entire face lights up, the girl always elated at the prospect of sharing her latest research with her brother, and begins prattling off in a scholarly tone, “Well, the outer tails are gonna catch first.” 

 

She clamps her fingers together, spewing an accidental raspberry as she makes a “ _ Ksh! _ ” sound. “Like when Forge’s gears get jammed, see?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Marcol replies, bemused. “Then what? Are all the stars gonna crash into each other?”

 

“Actually,” Corelli says matter of factly, “everyone thinks that, but actually the chances of that are like, zero.”

 

Marcol slouches forward, pretend sulking. “ _ Aw _ , so no cool explosions?”

 

“Actually no!” Corelli bounces and swings her legs, and Marcol grabs her around the waist to keep her from toppling out of the tree. 

 

“There’s so much dust and gas in _ between _ the stars,” she says, more determined to talk than breathe, “and that stuff gets all smashed up and can actually make even  _ more  _ stars and -”

 

Marcol tunes out as his sister’s chatter turns to incomprehensible gibberish, and returns his gaze to the heavens, wondering what Sorscha looks like to the inhabitants of Arkemi, or how Arkemi’s considerable size looms for those of Sorscha. Do they have different names for their neighbors? Certainly they must. So then what do they call his galaxy? And what does it look like from afar? Does it spiral around itself like these other two? It would make the most sense; he hasn’t heard of galaxies looking any other way. Maybe Corelli knows?

 

“Corelli?”

 

“- and they’re full of poisonous gas, but it’s  _ so  _ pretty -”

 

“Corelli.”

 

“- and it’s where stars get made, and -”

 

“ _ Corelli! _ ”

 

“ _ Marcol _ !” Corelli shouts, annoyed, and “accidentally” kicks him in the shin. “ _ What _ .”

 

“First of all -” Marcol kicks her back “- second, I was gonna ask you something, but you’re being a jerk, so forget it.”

 

“Fine,” she retorts, sticking out her tongue. “Anyway, so they’re called nebulas and actually if you look  _ right _ up… up  _ there _ at Redwall’s Lance, that’s actually in the,  _ uh _ , Dove’s Tail nebula, I think.”

 

“Oh, you  _ think _ ?” Marcol teases her. “The great and learn _ ed _ Corelli doesn’t  _ know  _ something?”

 

He laughs as she gives him a shove.

 

“I do  _ too _ .”

 

“Then tell me what’s past Arkemi,” he says. 

 

“You mean  _ in _ ?”

 

He shakes his head. “Nah, that’s  _ easy _ . You know all about that fancy dust or whatever. Tell me what else’s out there.”

 

Shifting into a more comfortable position with his back to the bristlecone’s trunk, he motions for Corelli to sit closer in his lap, but she stiffens as he reaches for her.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“You’re gonna make fun of me.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I don’t know what’s past Arkemi,” she huffs. “Forge can’t even get a signal 

off this cruddy planet, how’s he gonna get past a billion miles?”

 

Marcol frowns; he hates it when his sister puts herself down like this as if she’s to blame for the deadzone their cursed city is stuck smack dab in the middle of. 

 

“Then tell me what  _ you _ think’s out there,” he says, trying to sound upbeat. “Maybe Forge doesn’t know, but I bet you can come up with something a million times better than what he can.”

 

Corelli smiles. “Think so?”

 

“ _ Know  _ so,” Marcol says. “I’m not completely stupid.”

 

She giggles at this and scoots along the branch until she’s nestled safely in her brother’s arms, and, carefully, she begins to imagine beyond their desolate world.

 

She ponders first upon a planet with lakes that stretch down for miles but are clear to the very bottom of their deepest trenches. She describes a scattering of human sized skeletons visible from the surface, and Marcol shivers as she points out that, at that depth, the bones would  _ actually _ be  _ much  _ bigger up close. Next she decides on forests that grow glass bulbs for leaves and flowers with oily nectar for the gearforged insects clicking and whirring on wind up wings. Then, taking the form of an iron giant, she erects great, metal structures from her molten fingers on stretches of craggy, featureless shale and chases the clouds overhead to show her glittering city to the six suns above.

 

Corelli pauses after this, for just a second, until finally, and with delicate whispers, she plays careful but illustrious architect to a palace built soft and secret as velvet into a cool, purple mountainscape, its surrounding gardens of sage and rosemary flanked by mist that pours over the cliff’s edge like spectral waterfalls. It obscures the ground below, so only those invited by airship know of its existence. Few ever even glimpse it, but Marcol and Corelli are very lucky to be granted an audience by the palace’s only inhabitant - a tall, feathery woman who sways with the wind as it blows open her threshold, revealing the two children stood wary but hopeful on her marble steps. 

 

She asks them in not with words but a curling finger that leaves a ghost of itself beckoning through the air - a strange, ethereal projection lagging a little too late behind her movements. They oblige and follow through an ornate foyer carved from oak and trimmed in labradorite, down a hall of scarlet chandeliers and gold lace, and come to a standstill by two, colossal doors already opened wide. Inside, Marcol and Corelli find themselves staring at a library bound from spine to ceiling in glowing amber light and the smell of dried leather and dog-eared pages, its walls adorned with shelves so burdened by books, even the air groans from the weight of all the knowledge stowed away in troves.

 

They don’t wait for the woman to give them permission, hurrying past her to the nearest pile of tomes and grabbing armfuls before plopping down on the plush carpet with their spoils and pouring over every page together.

 

And they read about  _ everything _ , about intricate technologies that can animate entire armies from piles of metal scraps, and stories of barbaric zealots challenged by dragons who fooled their enemies by appearing first as unformidable dwarves, and there are tiny folk who like to live in your ears if you didn’t clean them, and there’s dry quicksand that swallows you into an upside down version of your reality, and and and -

 

“And?” Marcol’s voice is hushed as he interrupts his sister, and she sighs with frustration.

 

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” she says. “I… had a whole bunch, but I forgot.”

 

Marcol feels Corelli slouch in his embrace, and he opens his eyes to see her blinking back at him with shadows blooming beneath her eyes.

 

“Shoot,” he says under his breath. “What time is it? C’mon, we gotta get you in bed.”

 

“But I don’t wanna go yet,” Corelli frowns, crossing her arms as Marcol maneuvers his legs around her and shimmies down to the branch just below their own.

 

“Can’t we just stay up here?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why  _ not _ ,” she pouts.

 

“You know exactly why,” he replies, and as if summoned by those words, a door slams in the distance followed by a voice calling in slurred syllables.

 

“Ma- _ ark _ ! Lee! Where the hell are you!”

 

Both children startle then immediately freeze, the succeeding silence aching in their chests as the promise of less endurable abuses antagonizes their rising panic. 

 

“Hurry,” Marcol finally hisses, hastily clambering his way down the tree.

 

Corelli follows suit, though not as nimbly, and her footing fails on the last branch sending her crashing onto the bed of gnarled roots five feet below.

 

“ _ I’m sorry I’m sorry _ ,” she whimpers as her brother hurriedly helps her up. “He’s gonna be so mad I’m so sorry.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Marcol says and spits into his palm, using it to wipe away the blood from her right knee. “Just try not to limp. I’ll get some salve after he goes to bed, okay?”

 

“ _ Mark _ !” The voice interrupts, louder,  _ vicious _ , and Marcol bolts to his feet.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Corelli whispers again, and though he can’t see them, Marcol hears all too clearly the tears.

 

“You can’t  _ cry _ ,” he says, sterner than he intended, and softens his tone as he continues, “That’s what he wants. Just be brave. For me? Please, Corelli?”

 

Corelli wipes her nose then takes her brother’s hand.

 

“You’re so gross,” he says, hoping to lighten the mood, and squeezes his sister’s sticky fingers.

 

“ _ Mark, get your ass home right now!” _

 

But how much levity can either of them feign with  _ that  _ waiting for them.

 

“W-we gotta go,” Corelli says, voice numb and methodical. 

 

“Yes,” Marcol says, as though confirming this will make their feet lift from where they’ve cemented them.

 

“ _ MARK!” _

 

Stomach lurching into his toes, Marcol steels himself and starts in the direction of the house pulling Corelli along who feels more and more like a rag doll with every unwilling steps she’s forced to take.

 

“If he’s really bad,” Marcol starts to plan, “just stay behind me. I’ll distract him and you get up to the attic, okay? And I’ll be right up. You hid Forge before we left?”

 

“I know,” Corelli replies quietly.

 

“Forge is safe, right?” Marcol asks again.

 

He knows she’ll be safe; he  _ always  _ ensures it, but if Forge is found out…

 

He swallows bitterly the memory of the last mechanoid his father smashed, screaming at Marcol how useless his “fiddling” was, and what the fuck was he thinking stealing metal from his workshop? Oh I could beat your face in if I wanted,  _ boy _ .

 

“Yes,” Corelli distracts him from the flashback, and a twinge of relief pulls at the knots in his chest.

 

“Good,” he says. “And whatever happens, get up there, and  _ stay  _ up there.  _ Don’t  _ come down no matter what.”

 

“I know,” she parrots again, but she sounds less certain, and Marcol stops and kneels in front of her.

 

“You  _ can’t _ ,” he urges. “I… Corelli, you just can’t, okay?”

 

But soaked in the light of ten trillion unfathomable worlds and stars and dust and space, it’s so easy to believe they both  _ can _ \- can run on their calloused, bare feet not in the direction of a cold house and colder father, but away into the desert, racing through its pastel sands and scrub, further than anyone has dared venture, until they find something no one else ever will, something fantastic and inexplicable that will take them so impossibly far, they will never be found again.

 

Somewhere new and better -  _ so  _ much better than here.

 

And, as Marcol holds his sister close, chin resting in her soft hair, tears slipping down his sun scarred cheeks, he hopes beyond the beyond for the day when they will fly together over the dunes and plateaus and scorched gorges of this arid wasteland, soar above  _ everything  _ that has masqueraded as their home so they can look down and  _ laugh  _ at how pathetic it was all along, a mere speck in the spyglass of their searching eyes that will just…  _ blink  _ and then look no more upon this planet.

 

_ I’ll get us out, _ he promises.

 

_ I’m going to get us out. _

 

He’s never been one for wishing, but that night, as he and Corelli dry their faces and square their shoulders, he gives his fate to an entire galaxy.

 

Sorscha, specifically.

 

He always liked that one the best, its smaller, diligent spiral hurtling undaunted toward mammoth Arkemi. It’s a battle so similar to his own, and it comforts him when nothing else quite breeches his apathy. He also rather likes the comparison of himself to an entire universe, though he’ll never admit it aloud. 

 

Some things are better off kept to himself. 

 

But as he implores the glimmering cosmos above, his hopes are for two, because without Corelli...

 

Well… he can’t comprehend a world devoid of his little sister. A life sans her smiles and unrepentant joy is to live in death, and any good luck must be shared if not entirely her’s. Misfortune and sorrow he will gladly weather to keep her safe and thriving - the vermillion primrose amidst the parched gravel that scratches inside their chests and at hearts yearning for more.

 

Whatever it takes, he will not let her whither.


	2. Thick as Thieves

A week later, Marcol’s bruises are healed enough that his father begrudgingly agrees to let him and Corelli come into town - a very rare treat and one Marcol is almost too eager to sustain the beatings for. It’s a trick he’s mastered, really - let his father take out his intoxicated rages on the worst nights, hurl his verbal assaults on the easier ones, and after a while he’ll sober up enough to feel guilty and bribe his children’s obedience with smalls gifts, sometimes fruit, or, most coveted of all, a whole day out in the dusty remains of what were once the fantastic, bustling streets of the city, Corelli.

 

Of course, each child has different reasons for their respective excitement. This trip, Marcol intends to acquire a foot of quality copper wire because the cheap stuff in his father’s toolbox fries too quickly, and Forge’s circuit board is in desperate need of repairs. 

 

Corelli, on the other hand, is elated simply for visiting once more the city she was named after and acts for all the world its empress as she skips dutifully alongside her brother, the two of them alone almost immediately as their father abandons them in search of his own poisons. It’s clockwork; he’ll stop first by the mill to see how his old mates are getting on and check if there are any job postings. Then he’ll sulk into some seedy tavern and slink away again sporting bruises courtesy of whichever patron he decides to drunkenly insult. 

 

So, if their father doesn’t deviate from his usual habits, Marcol reckons he and Corelli will have a solid four hours to ferret out the market of the day and see what wares there are to sift and snitch through. 

 

Realistically, he doesn’t anticipate finding proper wire within his price range. Although he’s been steadily saving what little he’s managed to pilfer from his father’s purse, it’s not enough to cover even two inches of good copper. He also promised Corelli a treat of whatever she wants, so he has to factor that in, as well. By the end of the day, he’ll either come away a satisfied thief or anticipating a broken jaw when his father promises a proper lesson on stealing when they get home. 

 

But he hasn’t been caught yet. Even in the dog eat dog economy the fair metropolis has devolved into, it’s still hard to distrust such a polite young man and his doll faced sister -  _ especially  _ when they find out her name. Because no one clings to their pride like citizens of the formerly glorious Corelli, so many of them still latched onto the hope that this decade long depression is only a stepping stone back to its glory days.

 

Their mother, Lora, loved the city like another child and for good reason - she was why it had a chance to thrive at all, why the buildings used to shimmer with sol-strips in the day, storing the sun’s light to shine on the streets and in windows at night. The research and technology she pioneered developed far beyond pedestrian uses, too, and within a decade, everything from residential areas to industrial giants had transitioned fully into the age of everlasting energy.

 

But that optimism hadn’t planned for a radiation blast from a neighboring star that devastated the entire grid - every cell in every sol-strip ruptured with irreparable, microscopic fractures. Initial solutions argued for factory production of the quartz that comprised the cells, but even the most skilled transmutationist couldn’t mimic its unique molecular structure, nor was any conjuror powerful enough to emulate the meteor strikes that created the gems naturally. It had been in rare supply to begin with, and the city’s leading arcanists and mages worked tirelessly to compose a solution, but it was all for naught. 

 

There was no foreseeable return to the bright, beautiful world of artificial energy, and as soon as the news broke, panic seized the populace, hoards charting missions into the unforgiving desert in search of impact sites. In the months that followed, hundreds lost their lives. Dehydration was the most merciless killer, but parties turned on each other, as well, neighbors and friends and family lashing tooth and nail for the meager ounces of quartz they were able to find. 

 

By year’s end, all impact sites within a three hundred mile radius were scoured clean, and even the most zealous searchers retired, slinking back in the direction of Corelli’s dark silhouette for the last time, their lungs and faces blistered, their courage and hope deflated by the empty sand.

 

Seven years on, Marcol’s heart still sinks if he thinks too long on the image of his mother and father limping home in a similar fashion, their posture worn but their feet wary as they kept to the shadows. 

 

Before the tumult, he used to watch them returning from work bathed in the crisp glow of streetlights, their arms linked, their smiles wide as they watched their son wave furiously from his window perch. Sometimes, his father would pull his mother close and kiss her right in plain view, and Marcol would recoil from the window, gagging as he raced down the stairs and out the door, head-butting his way between his parents. They would laugh and hug him and shoo him back inside, and it was wonderful. 

 

Then the city collapsed, followed soon by the benevolence of neighbor and stranger alike as they realized an easier scapegoat than themselves. 

 

It was only a matter of time before they blamed Lora and the hostility drove her out. 

 

The rest of the family could have stayed, and Marcol was stubborn enough to incline (he dearly loved the city), but his father, horrified by the mere prospect of leaving his pregnant wife to fend for herself in the desert, packed all he could fit in their single wagon and, in the same day Lora exiled herself, moved the whole family out into the city’s unforgiving environs. 

 

A month later, they had a new home, built from the wood of the bristlecone forest they had been sheltering themselves in. Five more after that, on a clear, cold night that showed all the moons against the galaxies, Marcol had a baby sister.

 

Less than an hour later, neither child had a mother, and Marcol stole Corelli from a stiffening embrace. Blinded by tears, he absconded to the perimeter of the forest where the largest bristlecone bloomed obsidian against the stars, its branches welcoming the siblings into the sky, and Marcol climbed and climbed as Corelli, tied securely against his back, remained as silent as the suspended void.

 

And he climbed and climbed and climbed and climbed past branches that should have broken and sent him tumbling back down and climbed and reached and howled when he could climb no further, panicked eyes scanning the heavens looking for his mother. 

 

Once again, she was forced to leave, and this time, though he believed he would die if he didn’t, Marcol couldn’t follow her. 

 

He refused to return home until the night pardoned to sunrise, and, numb with the cold he’d protected his sister from, he picked his way down the tree. 

 

“Give it to me,” his father said when Marcol slunk through the door.

 

It looked as though he hadn’t moved, either, perched like a sentinel beside his wife with a hand on her shoulder. The other, however belied his stoicism, fingers choking the neck of a bottle half emptied of its contents. Two more were strewn at his feet, and his voice sounded like the acid they once contained as he repeated, “Give it to me,  _ now _ .”

 

“Her name’s Corelli,” Marcol said, low and challenging, standing his ground but adopting a defensive stance with one arm wrapped behind him and clutching tight to his sister’s small form.

 

“Don’t say that  _ fucking _ word,” his father growled.

 

Marcol had never been struck by either of his parents, but at that exact moment, as he watched in bullet time his father stand and lurch forward, raising his bottle as Marcol raised his arm, he vowed to endure  _ everything  _ if it would keep his sister safe. 

 

And it’s worked, mostly. 

 

Sometimes he’s not quick enough to intercept his father’s ire, and he has to bite back rage and bile as he presses a cold flannel to Corelli’s eye or shoulder. For the most part, however, he keeps her safe and happy and hopeful; it’s more responsibility than any fifteen year old should have, but such is his reality. It’s difficult, yes, but he would have it no other way.

 

“I want  _ this _ .”

 

Except maybe now, Corelli’s browsing in a street side stall coming to a definitive halt as she points at something on a lower shelf. Kneeling down, Marcol swallows a sigh, the item in question - a small, prismatic terrarium with jade succulents growing in a bed of tiger’s eye pebbles - easily hundreds beyond his price range.

 

“You  _ said _ anything,” Corelli reminds him.

 

She really does think herself royalty today.

 

Marcol audibly exhales, “Yeah, I know,” and carefully glances around. 

 

The stall is cramped in clutter, comprised of four shelves burdened with oddities and ends shoved into a small alcove he doesn’t recognize. Must be a new shop, then; they pop up occasionally when traders and wanderers trudge in from the desert for a few weeks respite before continuing on in search of a less dry metropolis. And like all the others, this one is hardly special save for the single, exquisite trinket Corelli has set her heart firmly upon.

 

“Okay, don’t say a word” he whispers, and Corelli crosses her index and middle fingers over her lips. 

 

It’s a necessary precaution, even if he hasn’t seen anyone else in the shop, and as the moment escalates, he swipes his hand forward, snatching the terrarium and shoving it in his pocket. As soon as it’s safe, he reaches again, this time for a rusted tin cup, his movements a practiced pantomime of any number of casual browsers, but before his fingers even brush the handle, something unseen curls around his wrist and yanks his arm upward, forcing him to his feet. 

 

Corelli shrieks, and Marcol screams, “Run!”, but his invisible captor is too fast, Corelli yelping as she’s jerked back by the collar.

 

“Let go of her!” Marcol yells, flailing his free arm. It connects with something, and there’s a grunting sound and the grip on his wrist slackens enough for him to pull it free. As soon as he does, he goes for the hand on Corelli’s blouse, ripping it off before picking up his sister and bolting for the street. 

 

In an instant, both children sprawl to the floor, Marcol having crashed them both into some sort of unseen barrier. 

 

“Come on!” He urges despite the pain in his face and scurries to his feet, racing left to right, pounding at the dense air leading out into the safety of the street. But the magic is steadfast, and his hopes of a clean escape are quickly dashed.

 

“Sure was stupid’ve ya,” a voice interrupts in Common, and Marcol whips around, heart panicking.

 

As he turns, however, it’s not an incensed adult staring him down with the law intent in their eyes. Instead, he sees a half elf, probably no older than himself, offering a handkerchief to Corelli and wearing an expression of concern.

 

Marcol soon understands why as his sister takes the proffered cloth and presses it to her nose.

 

“Y’di’n’t havta run, y’know,” the half elf says.

 

His initial surprise wearing off, Marcol gathers his bearings and steps between his sister and their aggressor, stiffening his shoulders to make himself appear bigger than his scrawny frame can account for.

 

The half elf takes a beat and shakes her head as she backs away a few feet.

 

“Really, I’n’t got anythin’ with ya,” she says, revealing the palms of their hands in a gesture of truce. “Jus’ di’n’t want ya bangin’ in’t’ th’ security.”

 

“You were just going to let me steal from you?” Marcol blurts out, and immediately regrets it.

 

Now they have a confession.

 

_ Dammit _ .

 

“S’not from me,” the half elf shrugs. Did she even hear what he just said? “S’my uncle’s place. Y’can take wha’ver y’ want, but y’ gotta lemme take that down first.”

 

“But you grabbed me!” Marcol insists. “You were  _ invisible _ .”

 

“Practicin’, genius! And yeah, I was tryin’a keep ya from slammin’ y’faces up. Barrier don’t go down n’less ya honest’r apprehended.”

 

“Well what are  _ we _ , then?” Marcal asks, growing frustrated.

 

“I’unno,” the half elf says, perfectly nonchalant. “Kin’a dumb if y’ask me.”

 

“Well actually we  _ didn’t _ ,” Corelli pipes up, and the half elf blinks owlishly before smiling.

 

“I like y’already,” she says, breezing past to the barrier. 

 

Corelli clings tighter to her brother, still blotting at her nose.

 

“S’a’bit finicky,” she explains, standing with her hands on her hips as she considers the air between street and shop. “Sore spot moves ‘round but...”

 

Marcol and Corelli watch as she runs her hands over the barrier, prompting vague ripples that swell back into nothing save at the upper right eve of the entrance. There, they catch and ricochet back.

 

“There it is,” she says, and, reaching up, taps a complicated pattern into the center of the disrupting area.

 

“A’right, got it.”

 

Marcol and Corelli look at each other, skeptical, and Corelli says with a bit of an air, “Well  _ I _ don’t see a difference.”

 

“Try walkin’ ,” the half elf stands aside, but, never one to be made the fool, Corelli remains at her brother’s side.

 

“ _ You _ walk,” she says.

 

“A’right,” the half elf concedes and strolls leisurely over the threshold. “See? S’all good, I wa’nt lyin’.

 

“Perfectly safe,” she hops from foot to foot, side to side, as further proof, and Marcol can’t help cracking a smile. He’s starting to warm up to these shenanigans.

 

“I’m Salm, by th’ by,” the half elf says, jumping one last time back into the shop and sticking out her left hand.

 

Marcol eyes it for a moment and then reciprocates.

 

“Marcol,” he says.

 

“Please t’meetcha,” Salm nods. “An’ who’s you?”

 

“ _ I _ am not gonna tell you,” Corelli says, crossing her arms and sticking out her chin.

 

“Kin’a long name, don’tcha say?” Salm quips, and Marcol lets out a small laugh as Corelli huffs and stamps her foot.

 

“It’s  _ not _ my name.”

 

“Well’n what it is?” Salm softens her goading tone and offers the hand she did Marcol. “Promise no more jokes.”

 

Embarrassed, Corelli drops her gaze and stares at her shoes, but Salm waits patiently until the girl finally takes her hand and shakes it.

 

“Corelli,” she says. 

 

“Int’ristin’,” Salm replies. “Can I get my hang’chif by th’ way?”

 

Corelli momentarily flounders, so accustomed with new acquaintances waxing poetic about her name, but instead, this one just wants their bloody  _ handkerchief _ back.

 

“You talk weird,” she says before she can help herself, and Marcol cuffs her shoulder.

 

“Hey now,” Salm says as Corelli takes a swing at her brother. “No ‘fence at all. My common’s not that good a bit. Only jus’ started learnin’ a few years ago when I went with my ant’n’uncle.”

 

“Are you new here, then?” Marcol asks, and Salm nods.

 

“We go ‘round places and see what y’can make’a’r scraps. ‘Parently a lot, sometimes,” she indicates Marcol’s pocket, and he goes red.

 

“Please, have it back,” he says, fishing out the terrarium. “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” but Salm waves it away.

 

“Nah, prolly somethin’ mixed in n’accident, won’t be missed.”

 

“Seems a touch fancy to not be missed,” Marcol says.

 

“I’unno,” Salm replies. “My uncle’s always sellin’ on the bad market, one less thing to get goons after ‘im, really.”

 

“You mean the  _ black _ market?” Corelli asks, and Salm clicks her tongue.

 

“Yeah, that’n.”

 

“Oookay, we’re  _ definitely  _ not taking it, then,” Marcol places the terrarium firmly on the nearest shelf. “Sorry, nothing against you but we could do with as little trouble as possible.”

 

“I ‘nderstan’,” Salm says, nonplussed. “Feel free t’look about more, though. Saw you had somethin’ sp’cific in y’eye when you were lookin’ around before. Any p’ticular I can help y’find?”

 

“Actually, yes,” Marcol says, “that’d be great. I uh, you wouldn’t happen to have any copper wire? Just a foot or so.”

 

Salm raises an eyebrow. “Copper y’say? Fancy. Maybe, lemme see.”

 

“Thanks!” Marcol calls after them as she disappears around a shelf.

 

“She seems nice,” he turns to Corelli whose mouth is still soured in a slight frown. There’s dried blood above her upper lip, and Marcol bends down to wipe it off.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

“M-m,” Corelli shakes her head and finishes cleaning the rest of the blood with her tongue.

 

“Sure?” Marcol asks, and she nods.

 

“Okay. Sorry, again.”

 

“S’fine.”

 

Humming a vague note, Marcol straightens and glances about the shop as Corelli stares at her shoes.

 

“Weird day, huh?” He says when the silence threatens small talk. “At least we didn’t get arrested. And Salm seems alright.”

 

“I guess,” Corelli shrugs.

 

“Hey,” Marcol kneels down again, “what’s wrong?

 

Before Corelli can answer, Salm reappears with a wide grin.

 

“Whole spool for you,” she says, and, true to her word, holds out a thick coil of gleaming wire.

 

“Whoa,” Marcol tries very hard not to gape, “uh - that’s very generous, but we can’t just  _ take  _ things from you.”

 

“Told ya, s’not mine.”

 

Marcol sighs, “Your uncle, then.”

 

“I don’ like my uncle,” Salm says plainly before Marcol can object further. “An’thin’ to piss’m off is fine by me.”

 

“We  _ really  _ don’t want trouble,” Marcol insists, but in his periphery, he sees Corelli scoop up the terrarium and hold it close to her person.

 

Salm sees this, too, and bursts out laughing.

 

“Seems one’a’ya’s happy with th’ offer.

 

“Go on,” she says, dropping the wire into Marcol’s pocket. “Promise it won’ be missed. Y’think we take in’v’tory? Lookit this trash palace.”

 

Now all three of them laugh, and Marcol feels better about accepting two extremely expensive gifts from a perfect stranger. 

 

“By th’ by, what y’need the wire for?” She asks.

 

“Ah well…” Marcol debates whether he should tell her about Forge, but before he can say anything, Corelli takes it upon herself to brag spectacularly.

 

“He’s a robot we built from scratch! Actually, Marcol built it, but he showed me what goes where and how it works, and actually his motherboard’s acting up, so Marcol’s gonna show me how to fix it, too. We can bring him and show you if you want.”

 

“Serious?” Salm says. “That’s  _ amazing _ .”

 

“It’s actually pretty junky,” Corelli explains.

 

“Hey, bots’s’bots, and I’ve never seen’n.”

 

“He’s… uh,  _ clunky _ , and our dad doesn’t know about him,” Marcol says, trying to mitigate Corelli’s promises.

 

“I get it,” Salm nods, “just if you’re ever able, I’d love t’see him.”

 

“Sure thing,” Marcol smiles.”But uh… speak of the devil, we should probably get going.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Salm says. “Any chance I’ll see’y’gin soon? Y’live ‘round here at all?”

 

“Unfortunately no,” Marcol sighs. “We live about five miles outside the city.”

 

“Well maybe I can come see you?” Salm suggests, and both Corelli and Marcol talk at once.

 

“No no, you don’t have to-”

 

“Forge actually isn’t that cool-”

 

“It’s so far-”

 

“Whoa, okay I get ya,” Salm interrupts. “If y’don’ want guests, that’s fine.”

 

“No that’s not… it…” Marcol trails off and huffs. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll try to come back. Week or two max.”

 

“Fair enough,” Salm says, and Marcol is grateful for her nonjudgmental tone.

 

“We do have to go, though,” he says, taking Corelli’s free hand.

 

“I don’ wanna get you in any trouble,” Salm replies.

 

“It’s fine, don’t worry.”

 

“Y’sure?” 

 

“Mm.”

 

“Well a’right,” Salm says, and walks with them to the exit. “It was nice meetin’ you all th’ same. Make sure y’keep your stuff safe. Maybe give that t’your brother for safekeeping a while.”

 

She gestures to the terrarium and Corelli nods and hands it to Marcol.

 

“Thank you, again,” Marcol says after tucking away their combined spoils. “This was really generous of you.”

 

“Spite,” Salm corrects. “I know my uncle won’t notice but, it’s th’ little revenges that count.”

 

“Duly noted,” Marcol says, and Salm grins.

 

“Best get now ‘fore you get in any trouble,” she says, and starts shooing them playfully back out onto the street. “Don’ want anything stoppin’ you from comin’ back.”

 

“As if anything could,” Corelli says, and blushes as Salm snorts.

 

“Tough bit, huh?” She says.

 

“Yup,” Corelli says proudly, and at that exact moment, blood dribbles from her nose.

 

“Aw heck,” Salm tuts, rummaging through her pockets. “D’you still have my hang’chif?”

 

“Oh, yeh,” Corelli says awkwardly, trying to keep the blood from getting in her mouth and procures the soiled cloth and holds it out to Salm.

 

“No I mean,” Salm laughs and shakes their head. “You’re silly, Cor’li. I mean for t’keep it. Keep that in check.”

 

“Oh. Ya,” Corelli goes red and turns her head away under the pretense of tending to her nose.

 

“We’ll bring it back next time,” Marcol promises. “I know some tricks to get stains out.”

 

Salm waves a hand. “S’no matter, really.”

 

“Okay,” Marcol rubs the back of his neck. “Well… uh… thanks. Again. For everything.”

 

“Not a worry,” Salm smiles. “Can’t wait t’see that bot’a yours.”

 

“He’ll be good as new when you do,” Marcol says, patting the pocket containing the wire.

 

“Hope so. Now you get on, don’ be late on my account.”

 

“Heh, okay,” Marcol chuckles, and, taking his sister’s free hand, steers them in the direction they’d come.

 

“Bye!” Corelli calls over her shoulder, and Salm waves once before ducking back into the shop.

 

“Well,” Marcol says after a beat, “today’s been insane, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” Corelli says. “I like her.”

 

“Me too,” Marcol agrees.

 

They continue on in companionable silence, navigating alleyways back to the main streets and wondering in their respective ways how best to impress their new friend next time they see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two things: I have no idea if the part with their mom fit, so sorry if that's awkward, again, this is unbeta'd af  
> also, there's a playlist of over 100 songs if anyone's interested
> 
> Bonus Thing: you're always welcome to leave a comment. It brings me Immense Delight

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, do please lemme know in the comments. Been in a real writing rut the past few months, and I could use some encouragement~


End file.
